Silver Lining
by Michelle
Summary: An assignment goes further than expected.


_I got a prompt this morning on tumblr to write something where Natasha was a stripper, and this is the result. _

_For those of you wondering, the next chapter of _Stumbling Home _should be up later tonight or sometime tomorrow. I just want to edit it once more._

_Thanks to everyone for reading, reviewing, and favoriting - I love you guys!_

* * *

Clint knows he's supposed to meet Natasha at the club, and he knows that he's supposed to be in character when he gets there. Fury left it up to them to design the particulars of the mission when he sent them down to New Mexico, but their goal is for Natasha to infiltrate a club owned by an arms dealer. Less than 24 hours in the city and Natasha already has an audition scheduled for tonight.

The club though, isn't exactly a martini bar, and the "audition" according to her will require a significant amount of less-than-legal activity on her part.

And his, too.

Earlier that afternoon, she'd barged into the dingy hotel room they'd turned into their base for the op.

"Well, I got it."

Clint didn't even look up from where he was cleaning his rifle. He knew she would, even if this is sooner than expected. Well, whatever pushes up their timetable gets them back sooner.

"When do you start?" He hadn't quite caught on to her mood yet.

"I have an _audition_ tonight." The way she said the word finally drew his attention. He carefully put the cleaning rod on the table and turned to look at her.

"Audition?" He asked, even though he already had a good idea of what that meant. Strip clubs require a specific skill set, though one that he had no trouble believing Natasha possessed.

She wasn't meeting his eyes though, and Natasha was no coward, so he knew something was up.

"They want me to dance."

"Are you still okay with that?" Fury had told them that was part of the mission spec back in New York, and Natasha hadn't batted an eyelash. She wouldn't be upset if that was all they were expecting her to do.

"Apparently, it's a little more involved than just taking my clothes off."

Oh.

"We'll just have to figure out another way, then."

"No!" Her shout was more forceful than he was expecting.

"Fury can't expect you to have sex with a stranger in order to complete a mission, Natasha. We'll find another way."

"It . . . wouldn't have to be a random stranger."

He'd never heard her sound hesitant before, but what she was suggesting was definitely enough to draw that particular trait out of anyone.

"Um, what?"

His voice came out choked, both afraid that she meant what she was saying and equally afraid that she didn't.

Natasha looked at him then, and he could see that she'd already decided. She was determined to see this through, and if he wanted her to sleep at night, well, then he had to help her out.

As it were.

"You've just been upgraded from guard dog, Barton. You're going in with me."

And so it was decided.

Natasha left before him, and Clint tried not to imagine all the things that could happen to her before he could get there. The images that kept playing out through his head were not pleasant, even if he knew that she could take care of herself.

But just because that was true, it didn't mean that he didn't feel the need to try and protect her. He knows she feels the same way about him.

Clint gets to the club an hour or so before Natasha's "audition" was scheduled, just to be on the safe side. He orders an overpriced drink, and when the whiskey comes, it's obviously watered down.

Good. He can't afford the distraction.

He scans the room, hoping for a glimpse of Natasha, wanting to make sure that she's okay, but she's not among the scantily clad women wandering around the club or undulating on the stage.

Clint waits.

He can't believe his eyes when Natasha finally takes the stage in the back, and there are thankfully fewer people crowded around it. She's barely covered by the scraps of fabric that only generously can be called clothing.

He can see one of the marks in the corner, wearing a dark suit and watching both Natasha and his customers closely. This is it then, there's no going back.

Clint knows that he should be pissed off that she's been assigned to use her body this way, but all he feels right now is turned on. She starts moving in improbable ways, bending and rolling, and he grips the glass of whiskey tighter as he feels his dick twitch in his pants.

Natasha's top is gone now and Jesus fucking Christ, she's fucking perfect. He's known that for a long time; he's seen her naked before, but context is everything and there's a very big difference between seeing your partner topless while stitching her guts back together and seeing her twisting around a pole.

He gathers his senses enough to approach the stage and tuck a large bill into the strap of her g-string. She writhes in front of his face for his trouble. Clint takes a big swig of his drink.

Her dance is over too soon, and she's off the stage to put her clothes back on before wandering the club for the second half of tonight's _audtion_. Even the word makes him sick.

Clint finds a table close to the stage and waits for her.

She approaches him not long into his second watery whiskey, looking both coy and confident, and Clint's 90 percent sure he's going to embarrass himself horribly at some point tonight. His fucking palms are sweating against the glass when she sits down next to him.

"Hi." Natasha crosses her legs and inches close to him. He can see the dark suited man hovering over her shoulder.

The man speaks.

"I see you like our Amber." The man puts one meaty hand on Natasha's shoulder and Clint hopes it works out that he gets to shoot this asshole before it's all over.

Repressing the urge, Clint just nods.

"She's one of our new girls, and she's available for _private _shows, if you are interested." His words are laced with a double meaning, and Clint is about two seconds from blowing the mission and just shooting the man in the middle of the room when Dark Suit takes that as his cue to leave them alone.

Clint's only partially pleased by this.

They're still being watched closely, though, so he runs his hand along Natasha's inner thigh and makes a few suggestive remarks. She gives as good as she gets, though, and her words have him shifting in his seat.

Noticing his discomfort with an all too satisfied smirk, Natasha asks, "You want to take this somewhere private?"

He hands Natasha a wad of folded bills, tosses back the rest of his drink and gets up.

She takes him by the hand, swaying her hips and leading him through an open doorway to a corridor running behind the main room of the club. There are a number of disquieting noises coming from behind the series of curtained cubbies, and if Clint had any doubt about what they were going to do back here, it's gone now.

He really hopes this doesn't screw everything up. Natasha's the first real friend he's had, well, ever, and this stupid fucking joke of a mission cocks that all up for them, he's going to be pissed.

He's grateful at least that Natasha knew in advance that the mark was expecting a show. It gave them both some time to prepare for it mentally. He supposes he's just happy that it's him she's leading into the back and not some random SHIELD agent that would bring back stories of Natasha to the other agents.

She takes him into the last cubby on the hall and pulls the curtain closed behind him.

Clint sits on the cushioned leather chair trying not to think about how many people have been here before them. He's not a germaphobe, but ugh.

Natasha crawls on top of him without any hesitation, flicking her eyes to where the camera is in the room. They went over it earlier, but she prefers to reconfirm whenever possible, just to be safe. He blinks twice, silently acknowledging her warning.

"Come on, baby. Let's see what you can do."

It's cheesy as hell, and he feels like he's caught in a bad porno, and the smirk Natasha is wearing really isn't helping.

She's straddling him on her knees and swaying to the omnipresent thrum of the music in the club. He's already well past hard, and he can't tear his eyes away from her waist, her hips as she gyrates. She dips down a little and rubs herself on his jeans over his erection and when she moans, it almost sounds real.

"You like that?" Natasha reaches behind her back to unhook her bra. "You can touch me, if you want."

There's reproach in her voice. They both know what has to be done, and this whole thing will fall apart around them if he screws this up. It's just hard to pay attention to silly unimportant things mission parameterswhen Natasha's breasts are in his face.

Clint doesn't really have a problem with touching her, but he still doesn't want her to think he's taking advantage of the situation. He bring his hands against her sides and holds them there, forcing himself to look her in the eyes when he says, "You sure?"

He wants to be certain he actually has her permission, but he hopes it sounds like he's asking whether this whole thing is going to land him in jail.

Loudly, she says, "You paid for it, honey."

Then she leans over him, pressing her breasts against his chest to whisper in his ear.

"I've wanted to fuck you since Sao Paulo."

Sao Paulo, when he got himself stupidly pinned down and she took a bullet in the process of rescuing his sorry ass.

Sao Paulo, where they were stuck for four long days with Natasha bleeding on a dirty bed in a roach motel.

Sao Paulo, when she screamed his name in her fever dreams and he thought she was dying and he was going to be alone again.

That was two years ago.

Well, then. How about that.

Then she's down on the floor between his knees and dragging his jeans down his legs to free his cock. She bends over him, takes him in her mouth, and without even thinking about it, his hands are on her head, his fingers are threaded through her hair.

Clint leans back against the couch as she sucks him. He closes his eyes because if he looks at the way she's using her mouth on him he's going to explode, and even if this really isn't the ideal place for a sexual encounter (really kind of gross, if he stops and thinks about it), it doesn't mean he can't exercise some common courtesy.

Natasha is really good at this, too good for comfort, and he cares about her too much to ignore her needs, no matter how important the mission.

He moves one hand from the back of her head to touch her cheek.

"Can I fuck you?"

He asks it as much for her sake as his; her bringing him off with her mouth is probably enough for the guys behind the cameras, but if she wasn't lying about Sao Paulo, then there's no reason he should be the only one who gets something out of this.

Natasha releases him with an audible pop, and her eyes are black pools of lust. She tugs up her skirt and peels off her thong with a little sway of her hips, she crawls back on top of him. She reaches behind him to fish something out of a bowl.

"No glove, no love." Natasha grins at him, cheekily holding up a red condom between two fingers. He can't help returning her smile any more than he can help running his hands over her belly and up to her breasts. The peaks pebble under his fingers when he pinches them, and he's rewarded with another moan from his partner.

Natasha tears the foil packet open with her teeth, then rolls the condom down over him. A scant moment later, he's completely inside of her and he's warm and it's _Natasha_ and he can't fucking believe this is happening.

She so warm and tight around him and he's wanted this for so long he doesn't even remember a time when he didn't think about her like this and he hopes he gets another chance at this because he knows they could be so good together, fucking and fighting evil and she's flushed all the way down her chest and it's _Natasha._

He must be letting too much of himself show through his cover, because Natasha frowns a little and pushes him backward against the cushions and leans back from his chest. It makes their coupling less intimate, more like what it's supposed to be. Clint knows he'll overanalyze it later, but for now he's just supposed to be a random john, going at it with a stripper in the back of a seedy club.

Figuring that means he can still touch her, though, he presses one calloused thumb against her clit and he's rewarded with the sight of Natasha biting her lip and moaning. Their movements both become more frantic and now he's bucking his hips off the seat, thrusting into her as deep as he can go.

Then, she's pulsing around him and the clenching pushes him right over the edge with her.

And shit, he's pretty sure he said her name, her real name, when he came.

Natasha slides off him and takes the condom to dispose of it. She's not looking at him, and he wonders if he just fucked everything up.

He also hopes that whoever was watching them just assumed he was shouting the name of an ex or some fantasy fuck and not the name of the woman who just screwed his professionalism out on a leather chair.

Of course, he's not going to be that lucky.

He's just zipped himself up when three men with guns burst into the little curtained room.

"Black Widow, we were expecting you." Dark Suit says with a sneer. "Your friend should learn to keep his mouth shut."

Fuck. She's going to chew him out for that later.

But Natasha, even though she's mostly naked and wearing six inch platform heels, springs into action. She takes the one closest to her down with her thighs and Clint hears the telltale sound of snapped bones as he puts a bullet each neatly between the eyes of the other two men.

He moves swiftly over to where Natasha is pulling off the platforms. Screams are echoing down the hall, and he knows they have a very narrow window for retreat.

"You got a plan?" He asks her, pulling his button down off over his head and handing it to her.

"Well, I'm thinking we shoot our way out of this dump, maybe stop off for a burrito or something, and then you spend the rest of the night making me come."

She says all this with complete nonchalance as she rolls the long sleeves of his shirt up, and Clint thinks he's smitten, or at least feeling whatever it is that would make a grown ass man use the word "smitten".

She stoops, pulls his backup pistol from his ankle holster where she watched him strap it earlier.

She stands, looking at him, and he can see a bit of uncertainty wavering behind her eyes. "Is that ok?"

"Sounds like a plan."

"We'll call Fury in the morning."

He laughs and follows her out into the hall.


End file.
